And then I watch in bemusement as he starts walking in the opposite direction, toward the sign that says Forest Hills and Queens.

“The other way!” I call after him, skipping down the steps of the platform leading to Manhattan. “Signs are your friends!”

Emmitt meets me on the crowded platform a minute later, his expression dark. It appeases some of the lingering heat in my stomach, and my chest doesn’t feel quite as tight watching him.

“You know, you could stand to be a little less rude,” he mutters.

“Probably,” I agree, before I shrug. “You could also stand to be a little less of a dickhead. Are either of us going to make an effort to stop? I highly doubt it.”

He glares at me before looking away, eyeing the edge of the platform warily. A rat scuttles down below, and he blanches, knocking into me for the umpteenth time.

I sigh and resign myself to a fate of continually bumping into Emmitt Ramos for the next five weeks.

When the train finally pulls up, it’s filled to the brim.

Emmitt grimaces contemplating the doorway. “Should we wait for the next one?”

“It’s rush hour—they’re all going to be packed,” I say and grab the collar of his jacket, dragging him inside the subway car with me.

What I don’t account for is the way we’re pressed against each other. My cheeks start to warm, and I pointedly look away from him, grabbing the nearest pole. He follows suit, his ringed fingers just above mine, his pinky brushing against my thumb.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Now I put in my headphones, blast Olivia Rodrigo, and you do whatever it is you want to pass the time,” I say, pointedly waving my phone in the little space between us. “We’re getting off at Whitehall Street, so we have a while to go.”

Emmitt arches an eyebrow, eyeing the stops listed along the top of the subway car. “That’s like fifteen stops away.”

I shrug, putting in my earphones.

And almost immediately, the train lurches, and I practically sprawl all over Emmitt.

I clench my eyes shut, wondering who I wronged in my past life for this to be happening to me. “Sorry,” I say and take a pointed step back, cursing the subway gods.

Emmitt gives me a knowing look, and I nearly stomp on his feet in response. It’s a miracle I hold myself back.

Instead, I swelter in the heat of the bodies around me and think about how I ardently hate New York City.

California can’t come soon enough.

13

“This is our stop,” I say, flicking Emmitt’s arm as the subway starts to pull in to Whitehall Street.

He glances up from his phone and looks almost bewildered by the near-empty train. “Is this the last stop?”

“In Manhattan, yes,” I say, before inclining my head to the doors. “Come on.”